Like Hell
by blue.rose.spobette
Summary: Sam-centric. One shot. Takes place immediately following 3x16. Sam blames himself for Dean's death, and cannot sleep until he sets things right.


_**A/N:** First attempt at a Supernatural fan fiction. Hope it's decent enough. _

_Please review if you enjoy it. Thanks!_

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**Like Hell**

The atmosphere inside the motel room was eerily still, the air so thick that you might suffocate on it if you even dared to disturb its grasp. Even Bobby, who was notorious for punctuating even the calmest of nights with his rumbling snores, was slumbering silently. Sam had actually found himself wandering over to the elder's bedside a few times, just to ensure that his last remaining family was still breathing.

The state of the outdoors, however, was something else entirely. He could hear the outside walls of the deeply outdated building creaking malevolently with every gust of wind, providing accompaniment to the echoing whistles riding the breeze. There were numerous times in the past couple of hours that Sam had caught a shadow pass by from his peripheral vision, obscuring the glow of the full moon that hovered at the apex of the sky.

And those goddamn howling wolves in the distance reminded him of nothing but the snarls of the Hell Hounds as they closed in on his brother. As they tore the skin on his chest into ribbons and spilled his blood into a scarlet puddle of damnation across the wooden floors.

He shook the thought free, taking deep, purposeful breaths. He knew it was foolish to be concerned about unwanted visitors; Bobby had adorned all doors and windows with sigils that would keep any manner of beast at bay, and the trails of salt that lined every possible entry point had not been perturbed. They were safe – as safe as anybody in their mindset could be, anyway.

With the demon blade in one hand and a bottle of stale, warm beer in the other, Sam had finally resigned to keeping guard at the tiny, dilapidated desk just beside the front window. Sleep would not, after all, be gracing him with its presence any time soon.

He wondered vaguely what Dean would say, had he been there in lieu of Bobby. He'd wake up in the middle of the night, as was commonplace when his subconscious sixth sense zeroed in on any unusual movements on Sammy's part, and make some sarcastic remark about how if _anyone_ needed actual beauty sleep, it would be his goofy-looking little brother.

The thought alone elicited a small smile on Sam's cracked lips, as well as involuntary pools of moisture at the bases of his eyelashes. Dean had only been gone for something like six hours, but it had already begun to feel like a lifetime. Sam had not even been able to look Bobby in the eye as he carried Dean's lifeless figure from the house, and had pretended to ignore the older hunter's distraught sniffles in turn.

Sam only spoke when Bobby began to talk of giving Dean a proper hunter's funeral. And even then, his only response had been a simple, "No." Because as foolish as he knew it was, he could not bear the thought of cremating Dean's remains. Incinerating his body to the point of indiscernible ash. Eradicating any and all hope of bringing him back.

"Sam…" Bobby had begun with raspy protest, his voice sore and raw from the grief they were both feeling.

Sam had not even allowed him to finish, cutting him off with more volatility than originally intended. "I _said_ no."

Bobby had understood. Or, at least, Sam assumed he did, for he did not argue with him further.

He hadn't expected it to hurt this badly. To paralyze him with such full, crushing numbness. He had seen Dean die before – countless times, in fact. The Trickster had made sure of that. But even for all of the asshole's attempts at desensitizing Sam to the inevitable, he had not been any better prepared when the time finally came.

Despite the hollering protests of his own consciousness, he had found himself wondering about Hell. Picturing Dean's figure being consumed by the flames of the underworld, screaming for salvation. He wondered distantly if Dean had any conscious awareness of the torture being inflicted upon him. And the dark, omnipresent voice in his head was leaning toward 'yes.'

The imagery caused a searing pain in the pit of his stomach – a pain even more potent than the sharp serrations of Jake's blade impaling his back the year before. But try as he might, he could not will himself to stop thinking about it. How could he? How fair would it be to ignore consequences that were so clearly his fault?

The warm presence of tears on his cheeks disrupted his reverie, and he wiped the back of his knife-hand across his face impatiently. Dean would have been embarrassed to see what a sissy he was being. 'Keep your head up. Stiff upper lip. Roll with the punches, no matter how many fists are coming at you.'

_Keep fighting. Remember what Dad taught you. And remember what I taught you._

And yet, here he was – crying like a little bitch.

Making his decision, he downed the remainder of his bottle in one hefty gulp, ignoring the flat taste that cascaded over his tongue, and rose to his feet. In three long strides he was at the foot of his bed, digging through his duffel for the necessary items. He had gathered them preemptively a few days ago, when the sinking feeling in his gut had begun to overtake the hope in his heart. He had collected them with the hope that the occasion in which he would need them would not arise – but with the pang of realism that it _might_.

After double and triple checking that everything was accounted for, he slung the bag over his shoulder and quietly crept toward the door. Waking up Bobby en route was the last thing he needed right now.

With his hand poised on the knob, he slowly turned it until he heard the click. And then, with slow, meticulous movements, he pulled the door open noiselessly. Minding the line of salt, he stepped out into the night air and began to quietly pull it closed once more.

He was on the verge of releasing the anxious breath he'd been holding, ready to celebrate this minor success, when the door flung from his grasp. It took him a moment to register what had happened, but everything was made quite clear when two rough hands grabbed him by the shirt collar and bodily yanked him back inside.

"What the hell d'ya think you're doing, boy?" Bobby hollered, launching Sam's frame safely away from his escape route.

Sam barely righted his balance, voice caught in his throat. "Bobby…"

The old man seized the bag from Sam's hold, dumping its entire contents onto the bed. Once he finished fishing through the clothing items that Sam had used to mask the more sinister supplies, he turned to face him once more with a glint in his eyes.

"Summoning a Crossroads demon, are ya?"

"Bobby – I can explain – "

"I oughta skin you alive!" Bobby interrupted, closing the distance between them. Instinctively, Sam took a step backward. "You boys think this is cute? Think it's funny to toy with death and demons and drive an old geezer crazy as balls?"

Sam shook his head fervently. "No, I – "

"Don't you dare look at me with those puppy dog eyes and try'a lie to my face," Bobby snapped. "Your brother tried to pull the same bullshit last year, and I'ma slap you silly if you think I didn't learn anything from it."

He felt the tears forming in his eyes once more, and, without warning, the levee he had tried so hard to keep in tact began to rapidly crumble.

"What am I supposed to do, Bobby?" he asked desperately. "Stand around while Dean is burning in Hell? Pretend like the only reason he's there _isn't _because of me?"

Bobby's expression softened in slight, but his resolve remained. "I know you want your brother back, Sam – I'd be lyin' if I said it wasn't what I want, too. But if the two'a you keep playing Ring Around the Reaper, you'll _both_ wind up dead. _Permanently_."

Sam swallowed roughly, turning this over in his mind. Deep down, he knew Bobby was right. But that instinct was buried beneath the asphyxiating grief. The bone-crushing pain. And every other nerve in his body was screaming in protest. Telling him to push Bobby aside, grab the summoning supplies, and do what he originally set out to do.

"Dean has spent his entire life looking out for me," he began raspily. "He carried me out of the fire. He tried to calm Dad down the day I left for Stanford. He has put himself between me and danger for as long as I can remember. _Longer_, even. And if there's anything – _anything_, at _all_ – that I can do to save him…"

He trailed off precariously, his voice box pinched off by incoming emotion. The tears were blurring his vision now, giving Bobby the illusion of swimming underwater. He turned away to wipe the moisture from his eyes sheepishly.

Bobby released a heavy sigh, reaching up to hesitantly clap Sam on the shoulder. Bobby was not a physical person by nature, so this simple gesture carried immense gravity in Sam's weary heart.

"Death ain't supposed to get cheated, son," he murmured. "You boys have already played the odds one too many times. And as much as it pains me to say it…"

_It's time to let go._ Bobby didn't have to finish the sentence for Sam to know what he was driving at.

A wave of exhaustion was suddenly pulling him into the undertow as he nodded mutely in placating agreement. Bobby took a moment to assess his features – ensure that he wasn't going to pull the same crap all over again in ten minutes, most likely – before he took a step back.

"You should get some sleep, kid. You look like hell."

**END**


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